


use well the days (yesterday started over again)

by lostincostco



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Bilbo Dealing with the One Ring, Bilbo-centric, Courtesy of the One Ring, Do-Over, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt, M/M, Mental Instability, POV Alternating, Possession, Protective Bilbo, Sassy Bilbo, Talking Animals, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3272819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostincostco/pseuds/lostincostco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one could say what had compelled little Bilbo Baggins to dive into the Brandywine river, but when they pulled him out of the water he was never the same thereafter, a yearning for faraway lands had kindled within him to the dismay of his kin and he’d oft look East, his bright eyes seeing something grander than the rolling hills of the Shire, lost to the world around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a page from movie canon, I'm placing Aragorn's age as late 20s/early 30s, thereby making him quite older than he's supposed to be. 
> 
> Based around The Hobbit movies (more of a guiding outline than anything, tbh; there're rather a lot of changes, though the Company's route remains more or less the same), but here and there book influences may be spotted.

It does not occur to the hobbit fauntling to even struggle until the combined weight of his clothes and body have already dragged him underwater, where the current is much too slow and the pressure of the river water can be felt in triple, a deceptively gentle descent ending with his back settled onto his would-be grave of small pebbles and flat, smooth-surfaced stones.

Even surrounded by it, he cannot recall the sound of rushing water, has forgotten the soft caress the spring breeze bestows as it sweeps through the green fields and the memory of the sunsets he once admired for their array of colours has faded, the reds and violets now definitions of something just out of reach, lost to him in everything but name. He feels very old, and very tired of exploring, and suddenly the thought of finding respite in the riverbed does not seem so bad. 

So he lets go.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

No one could say what had compelled little Bilbo Baggins to dive into the Brandywine river, but when they pulled him out of the water he was never the same thereafter, a yearning for faraway lands had kindled within him to the dismay of his kin and he’d oft look East, his bright eyes seeing something grander than the rolling hills of the Shire, lost to the world around him.

( Heaving, pushed around and prodded by hands, concerned voices filtering through the dull roaring in his ears and with flash-bright fireworks behind his eyelids from the stinging river water, Bilbo was pulled out of the Brandywine and though he most certainly drowned on that day, he breathed again, and for the first time in a long while, he felt alive. )

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Books, books, and more books, was how Bilbo spent a large part of his second childhood, to the delight of his father, Bungo, who was a very respectable gentle-hobbit indeed, and thus approved of sensible pastimes like reading. Over time, however, to his father’s dismay, the fauntling began exhibiting a certain penchant for traveling, and — dare Bungo say it — _adventuring_ , that he could not begrudge his son for it had his mother, Belladonna, smiling beatifically and immensely pleased that she'd have company on her journeys.

And journey they did. During the summer, the both of them could be seen leaving the Shire in the early morning hours — and on pony-back, to top it off, an unheard of and scandalous affair amongst hobbits — due to return at first in time for dinner, then a few days after, until gradually they left for weeks at a time, coming home abundant with stories filled with all kinds of creatures and wondrous places, humming tavern songs that somehow always managed to skirt the line between raunchy and playful.

So it was no wonder that Bilbo began accumulating adequate travelling gear, the most notable of which was an Elven cloak that had the power to shield its wearer from unfriendly eyes, the enchanted cloth blending with the landscape almost seamlessly, for the elves were fond of children most of all, and had taken even more of a liking to the small fauntling because of his all-encompassing enthusiasm for knowledge, and wanted him to be safe in his future adventures — a fact none doubted would happen sooner rather than later.

And if he took a little too keen an interest in stories concerning Sauron, it was understandable. Most children were, after all, drawn to tales of battle and took delight in hearing of the defeat of great evil, though it remained overlooked that Bilbo never seemed to cheer at the ending.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

When Bilbo had asked his father to make him a set of throwing knives and a dagger from wood for his birthday, because custom dictated that hobbits not yet of age were to receive presents rather than to give them, Bungo had huffed and puffed but all the same, when September came, the beautifully-carved practice weapons were waiting for the small, would-be burglar on the kitchen table, right next to a jar of golden honey, a plate stacked high with pancakes topped with cream and a cup of steaming tea.

This time around Bilbo would be prepared, and with this resolve in mind, he headed out to practice without fail every morning following his birthday, missing both second breakfast and elevenses altogether — something quite boggling to the minds of his neighbours, and much remarked upon with distaste — only to return for lunch when he had felled at least three orcs (and several wargs besides), though it must be noted that in this case, both foes were represented by the sturdy tree trunks of a copse on the outskirts of Hobbiton, rendering the feat rather less impressive than at first glance.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

The year after that, when he came of age, his mother, bless her heart, having witnessed his dedication, presented him with weapons of real steel commissioned from a wayfaring blacksmith, the Dwarvish make of the blade gleaming in the candle-light and reflecting Bilbo’s gaze, bright with unshed tears and affection, though he did not cry then.

He did not cry when he buried her for the second time in as many lifetimes either, a decade later. The deaths of his parents might have happened on different dates than the first time, but the causes were the same and the time incongruence negligible, and he'd long made peace with the manner of their parting. He did not cry when they put her in the ground, but when he found himself back in his smial, his alone to call home again, Bilbo stumbled to her room in a daze and buried his face in her favourite scarf which would carry her scent for a while yet, shoulders shaking silently for the longest time.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Finally, after years of waiting on his part and yet still quite a bit earlier than expected, Bilbo closes his eyes as he let out a puff smoke, comfortably settled on the bench in his garden, and upon opening them promptly drops his precariously balanced pipe, as a familiar gray-clad figure is standing right in front of him where there was no one before.

"You're _early_!" the hobbit accuses, then backtracks a bit when Gandalf raises one bushy eyebrow in question. "I mean, for my birthday celebration, if that's why—" Bilbo stammers only a bit and is quite proud of thinking so fast on his furry feet, even though Gandalf promptly cuts him off, dismissing his excuse.

"Bilbo Baggins!" the wizard greets, in what the hobbit secretly thinks is an unnecessarily loud and booming voice. Gandalf then squints at him for a while, and when he finally deigns to say something, it turns out to be a piece of the wizard’s own brand of advice. "Firstly, my boy, you ought to know that a wizard is never early," he says, all the while fishing for his own pipe in his robes, "Nor late. Rather, he arrives _precisely_ when he means to." The wizard nods to himself as he imparts this wisdom, and Bilbo valiantly resists the urge to roll his eyes, though just barely. Gandalf, of course, notices this and glowers, pulling up to his full height before finally revealing the motive behind his visit. "Secondly, I'm here... Well, I'm here because I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure with!” he gesticulates rather animatedly, then mumbles under his breath, “But it’s very difficult to find anyone.” And with that said, stops talking altogether and looks at Bilbo expectantly.

His pipe recovered during the wizard's disjointed ramble, the hobbit lets the taste of pipe-weed calm his nerves for a moment, and manages not to fidget when he asks (in what he hopes is a considering tone), "What kind of adventure are we talking about, exactly?" but then, without waiting for Gandalf to reply, though the wizard clearly wants to — his open mouth indication enough — the hobbit holds one of his hands palm up in a silent gesture for the wizard to wait, pushing off the bench and waving towards his smial. “Though I rather think this is a conversation to be had over tea, don’t you agree?"

Gandalf, perhaps having come fully expecting to field an objection or several, seems rather taken aback by a response that isn't outright disagreement, and deflates as if all the wind has been taken out of his sails. Head resting on his hands where they are perched on his staff, the old wizard looks a few times between the round green door and the vague direction of the Blue Mountains in indecision, until Bilbo takes pity on him and waves him off.

"Perhaps dinner then, if not tea?" the hobbit's eyes bore into the worn-out, deceptively kindly face. "But you must tell me how many will be joining us, so that I can prepare accordingly.” He, of course, knows what to expect, and consequently his smial has long been stripped of any decorations and mathoms, the silverware and doilies and sundry other items put into storage, but the hobbit still feels it prudent to ask anyway, so as to not raise suspicion later on.

At the mention of dinner, Gandalf perks up considerably and says with evident amusement, "My dear Hobbit, I'm quite sure that you will not be remiss in preparing as much food as you can. In fact, why, you might as well thoroughly empty your pantry before the journey! It would be for the best, I think, otherwise the food would go bad, would it not?" and with a wink and a muttered,  _'Dinner? Excellent idea!'_ he’s off, his hasty gait belying his age.

"Eru help me," the hobbit rubs the bridge of his nose wearily, and in an attempt to distract his mind from the doubts threatening to descend upon it, throws himself into putting together a feast in earnest.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

By the time Dwalin knocks on his door, he has properly worn himself out, but the entirety of his pantry has made it onto the table in one way or another, the fire in the hearth is crackling cozily, and he has changed into an off-white shirt and breeches suited for traveling, the only finery on his person a silver chain around his neck, hidden from sight by his collar and empty from any pendant. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

"Good evening, Master Dwarf! Bilbo Baggins, at your service," the hobbit inclines his head when he says this, and Dwalin eyes him up before he introduces himself distractedly, attention no doubt caught by the inviting smells coming from the dining room. "I've been told to expect a lot of hungry guests, so I took it upon myself to cook some dinner for everyone," Bilbo starts to say, the dwarf's head snapping to look at the hobbit at the mention of food, and with a ponderous, ' _Indeed?'_ he tosses his cloak (both of his axes appear to have been carefully laid against the wall of the entryway at some point; the garment, however, clearly doesn't warrant the same treatment) and barrels past Bilbo and into the dining room to settle heavily into a chair, biting into a toasty loaf of bread even as he is still in the process of sitting down.

It was going to be a _long_ night.

Bilbo has just politely enquired after Dwalin's travels, to which the reply had of course been naught but a consenting grunt and some more chewing, when another knock reverberates through the room.

"I'll go get that, but feel free to help yourself to seconds," Bilbo says, not that the dwarf would ever think of asking before doing so, and gets another grunt for his trouble.

At the door, as he well remembers, is Balin, and their introductions go by in much the same cordial manner as they did the first time around, yet Bilbo's heart gradually fills with dread the more time passes. Thoughts of the rest of the Company knocking on his door, looking very much alive, leave him anxious and fidgety, something Balin notices and enquires about, as he is much less brusque than his brother.

"I—" the hobbit stalls for a moment, then sighs. "I'm afraid I have to step out for a bit," he confesses, "to attend to some personal matters before we are to set out— like who is to care for my property while I'm gone, for one." _'I doubt I shall ever return, and I have to make sure Frodo has a home'_ , he thinks but doesn't say. "Gandalf did not give me much time to prepare, I'm afraid. My apologies for having to neglect my duties as a host before I've welcomed all of you, yet I don't wish to delay us once we start traveling." Balin nods in understanding and assures him that it's fine while he is walking the hobbit to the door. "You can use any of the rooms you wish to," Bilbo smiles, "and I would much appreciate it if you were to tell Gandalf that there's a wine bottle for him in the pantry, along with a glass. Man-sized." At that the hobbit winks at Balin, whose expression has turned amused at the mention of the wizard, and quietly makes himself scarce just as he hears the familiar tread of two pairs of heavy boots marching towards his home.

As soon as he sights the fields outside of Hobbiton, Bilbo cups his hands to his mouth and blows out air in measured breaths, the sound produced not much different from the call of an owl. When he reaches the field, a horse is already trotting towards him, stopping to mouth at his hand, looking for an apple or some other sweet treat.

Buttercup huffs disappointedly when she doesn't find any, but the mare still kneels briefly on the grass when he taps her foreleg, so that he can climb onto the saddle. The horse — not a pony, but an actual horse, one that even Gandalf could ride on comfortably, and weren’t his neighbours distraught by the height of her — was given to him when Buttercup, only a yearling then, got attached to the hobbit on the latter's visit to Rivendell, fond as he was of sneaking her various treats, and went so far as to follow him out the gates, all the while nosing at his pockets and whinnying.

Though at first the hobbit was a little troubled, and quite understandably so, considering the height disparity, Buttercup proved perceptive and easy to train, often intuiting what her rider wants just by the barest shift of weight, a muttered word or a whistle. Bilbo couldn't have asked for a better companion, and he could use a trusty mount on the journey ahead, draining as he remembers it being. She wouldn't spook when things got messy, and she would find him if they were ever separated, he thinks, and it soothes some of his worries.

Once spurred on, the mare keeps a fast pace all the way to Tuckborough, where Bilbo interrupts the Thain's dinner and makes sure that his will states in no uncertain terms that should he fail to return in two years' time, all that he owns is to be left to Drogo and Primula, to be passed onto their heirs, everything but a small monthly fee that would go to Hamfast for taking care of his home and garden in the meantime.

The chilly night breeze that brushes his curls helps him clear his mind a bit, and steels his resolve to meet the Durins and not break down in tears, but he still tarries a bit, brushes down Buttercup longer than strictly necessary, fiddles with her saddle and reins, and readjusts the stirrups twice, until he has naught to do but go back to the dwarves in his home. He would not openly admit that he's glad to have had a reason to miss their boisterous reunion, but he is. It felt like an intrusion, the first time it happened, especially when Thorin was relaying the news that they had no support, and he doubts it would have felt much different this time. Now it's gotten late enough that he has most definitely missed Thorin’s arrival, which is probably for the best.

Distracted as he is by his thoughts, he leaves Buttercup in a sheltered nook nearby, and heads to his door on silent feet, all the while looking at the ground and pondering the journey ahead, which is probably why he promptly walks into a solid wall.

Then the wall moves with a jerk and Bilbo ducks just in time to avoid getting elbowed in the face by Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain, whose back he just crashed into. 

"Peace, Master Dwarf!" he squeaks, "I do apologise for not paying attention to my feet and, uh, for startling you."

"You did not startle me, Hobbit," he huffs, and Bilbo can't quite believe that he's real, but here Thorin is, glaring at him. Alive.

History repeats itself, and they are, once again, and however unlikely, standing beneath the same night sky, overshadowed on one side of memories of things to happen. Before he can think better of it, Bilbo is talking, the uneasy feeling that has taken residence in his chest for the past decades finally unfurling.

"Of course not," Bilbo's lips curl in a small smile that renders no credit to his agreement, "Bilbo Baggins, at your service."

The dwarf uncrosses his arms, putting away his angular pipe in one of his front pockets in the same motion, and nods, eyes searching the hobbit’s for a long moment. Bilbo stares back, drinking in the sight of the dwarf, unabashed in the joy of seeing him again, and it is Thorin who looks away first. Said dwarf is then reaching for the door, a tactical retreat perhaps, but before he can turn the handle, Bilbo invites his guest to join him in a pipe instead.

"Might as well, since I am to be accompanying you as your burglar and I've yet to be told what it is I would be burgling exactly,” he reasons, and when the silence drags on, he adds, "Besides, it's a fine night out,” and shuffles his feet. Thorin nods at that, but makes no motion to get his pipe.

"Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror," he says apropos of nothing, and accepts the pouch of leaf from Bilbo's outstretched hand with some suspicion as he moves to sit next to the hobbit. “Tell me, burglar, have you any skills with a weapon?” Thorin turns to him once both their pipes are lit, and a slow grin blooms on Bilbo’s face, the light emitted by the burning pipe-weed making shadows dance across his features and obscuring the glint in his eyes.

No mention of dragons comes to pass for the rest of their time outside, or about anything else for that matter, smoke drifting between them instead of conversation after Bilbo’s blithe assent to the question, void of any elaboration other than a mock-serious, "Why yes, I _am_ the reigning champion at conkers around these parts; quite skilled with letter-openers too," leaves Thorin silently frustrated and staring straight into the night landscape.

For his part, Bilbo tries his hardest not to appear as giddy as he feels, but it does not appear to be working, if the familiar pinched expression of his companion is anything to go by.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Somehow, Bilbo’s mind does not seize to a stop when he meets Thorin then, but that is, he realises later on, because he has not yet seen the dwarf’s nephews. Or perhaps it’s a delayed reaction.

Balin is talking to him about the contract, after the rest of the company have finished introducing themselves, and Bofur’s playing up the horrors of dragon fire in an attempt to cow him, the whole room reverberating with noise, voices rising over each other and crashing down like tides, but Bilbo can’t, for the life of him, hear a thing, his eyes on the two young princes and his heart in his throat.

“You alright, laddie?” Balin’s peering closely at his face, and the hobbit blinks hazily at him until he realises that he’s being spoken to.

When Bilbo answers, his voice is rough and the room has fallen silent, everyone looking on curiously. “Yes. Uh, peachy.” He looks up at the older dwarf guiltily, for he hasn’t been paying attention at all. Noticing his fingers are trembling, he hurriedly stuffs them in his pockets and clears his throat. 

“Now then, where were we? Funeral expenses—” Balin starts again, but the hobbit interrupts him with a rather loud and pointed, _“About that.”_

"About that," repeats Bilbo quietly, then continues, firmer, "Mister Balin, would you accompany me to my study, so that we may rewrite some of the more unfortunate and ambiguous wording of this— this _contract_?"

The hobbit then gestures at a room beyond the corridor and steers the older dwarf in the right direction with one hand, the other still holding onto the scroll.

The room falls quiet when they leave, before a clamor of hushed voices rises, two of which distinctive amongst the noise, until one overpowers the other, and Gandalf shushes Thorin with a bellow of, "If I say he's a burglar, then a burglar he is!"

Bilbo counts it as a win, since no one has accused him of being a grocer or some such thing yet, and the notion seems more and more unlikely, though to Thorin's credit, the hobbit really has been no sneakier than a dazed draft horse in the dwarf's presence as of yet, so it would stand to reason that there would be doubts — but they would surely be put to rest soon, as Bilbo isn't quite the same clueless hobbit he once was, even if he is back to the beginning of the journey, and though he doesn't carry any corporeal evidence of his previous adventures, he still thinks and holds himself in a different manner, something that's bound to show through. 

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

When they return, it's to present Thorin with a heavily edited, severely shortened contract. Entire chunks of text are missing, and the hobbit has insisted that his fourteenth of the treasure, no _more_ but no _less_ , is to become available for him to do as he pleases with, effective immediately after the dragon has been dealt with. Thorin thinks he might be a burglar after all, when he skims over the neat handwriting, but before he can voice this his eyes are drawn to a bolded clause.

 **Allowance for a three day leave when the company reaches the Misty Mountains** , so that their burglar may finish a previous assignment, whereupon he would rejoin them on the other side of the mountain range. Thorin mulls over this for a good while, eyebrows drawn and expression pinched, but he signs his name on the dotted line at the bottom nonetheless, and doesn't bring it up for a long while.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Dawn brings light to a commotion in front of the hobbit's property, when the small creature mounts not a pony but a horse, the beast kneeling curiously when the burglar reaches for it after tightening his pack and clasping his cloak, much to the wizard's amusement and the younger dwarves' round-eyed stares. Perhaps that's the reason why immediately after they set to travel, Buttercup gets surrounded by none other than the two princes.

"Master Hobbit!" Kíli bellows, "This is unexpected," he indicates the horse, and grins up at Bilbo, open expression pleading for a story and no doubt mirrored by Fíli, for he can hear the older brother's soft chuckle on his other side.

"And this," Fíli declares as he rubs the fabric of his cloak between two of his fingers, "is of Elvish make!" then turns to Kíli with a, "Brother, it would seem our burglar is full of surprises!" and they both look at each other smugly for having been the first to find that out. 

"You've been busy, Bilbo," Gandalf observes, eyes twinkling under his hat.

"Yes, well," the Hobbit starts, and conditioned as he is to be wary of talking to dwarves about anything even remotely connected to elves, deftly changes the subject by launching into a story about ents, borrowed from his own nephew's book, which he has long since memorised by now, having read over it many times in another life.

Having cared for a young Frodo, and tested and honed his narration on many a murmurations of fauntlings, he has Fíli and Kíli enraptured in no time. Soon they are joined by Ori, and with him Dori, and eventually Bofur and Bifur.

By the end, Gandalf has congratulated him on the factual accuracy of his tale, and Ori's asking if he can maybe tell him more about the ents later, so that he may write it down. Bilbo agrees easily and in the same breath excuses himself from his pleased audience, pulling lightly on his reins so that his horse can fall back.

Once the hobbit is last in line, sidelong glances following his every move, he kicks his feet forward as he leans his weight slightly back on the saddle, and pretends to doze off with his chin tucked to his chest, the silver chain warm on his skin and blessedly devoid of any burden.

This way, no one interrupts him as he's basking in the presence of the dwarves and wizard, their conversations washing over him in a gentle wave, and he allows himself a small smile when Bofur starts up a song.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

When he wakes, because he's inevitably fallen asleep, his pretence turned true at some point, it's to a snort from Dwalin, the warrior making a pointed jibe at his sleeping habits.

Looking around with half-lidded eyes, silently thanking Buttercup for not jostling him too much along way by patting her mane, Bilbo notes that dusk has set in, and they appear to be fast approaching the gate surrounding Bree.

Blinking away the last remnants of sleep, he nudges Buttercup to the front, where Gandalf and Thorin are talking rather heatedly, and patiently waits them out.

"Will we be staying the night at an inn, Master Oakenshield?" he enquires, and then at Thorin's nod, says to him rather than asks, because he was an elderly man not long ago and any timidness he might have had was burned away near the end, quite literally, "Then I shall rejoin you at sunrise, as I'd like to pay a visit to an... acquaintance." And then promptly dismounts because they've reached the gate.

With a gentle pat to Buttercup's flank, he sends the horse down the main street in a trot to find the inn's stables, while he himself steals away into a crowd of Men before Thorin can even figure out a meeting point, which puts the dwarf in a foul mood indeed.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Thorin needn't have worried about losing sight of the burglar, because when they reach the Prancing Pony the hobbit is already there and getting chummy with a rough-looking Man, talking animatedly and indicating something laid out on the table the both of them are occupying, though whatever it is gets pocketed by the Man before he can catch a glimpse of it. Gandalf has forgone the racket of the pub and gone straight to his room, and Thorin really doesn't want to deal with this but he makes his way towards the corner table anyway, where their burglar is apparently at the very beginning of another one of his (admittedly, rather intriguing) stories.

"Master Hobbit," he calls, one hand resting on his sword hilt, "A word?" It's not really a suggestion and the burglar seems to cotton on quickly, because he gets up, placing a hand on his companion's shoulder briefly, muttering something in a low voice, and ambles up to Thorin, expression cheerful and mischievous at once.

His attempt at warning their burglar to keep quiet about their quest is thwarted by Kíli, who peers over his Uncle's shoulder and is in front of the hobbit in two strides.

"Who's your friend, Master Baggins?" his nephew asks, light tone belying his curiosity, the young dwarf's eyes drawn towards the Man's rugged clothes and the broadsword strapped to his waist. Most infuriatingly, the hobbit looks back towards the young Ranger, because he cannot be anything but, and at his half-smile that doubles as permission, introduces him as _'Strider'_ , and leaves it at that, picking up his story where he left off, now that his audience has multiplied.

Blessedly, the burglar dismisses the Company as his travelling companions and makes no mention of any quest, which is more than can be said about the rest of the dwarves as they take to loudly and conspicuously talking about the map and old prophecies.

Holding the bridge of his nose, Thorin redirects his glare to the dwarves instead, and hopes Kíli has the good sense to pry away their burglar at some point or, at the very least, keep him out of trouble for the night. The burglar says something that gets drowned out by the noise from the other patrons, and the Ranger laughs.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

When they make camp, several weeks later, the hobbit efficiently brushes down his horse and rolls out his bedroll a little ways away from the rest of the group as he's wont to do, then without prompting announces he’s going to gather wood for the fire. It’s disconcerting how quietly he slips in the forest, too swift for Thorin to even assign someone to accompany him, but their burglar seems well-versed in both sneaking about silently and travelling, if not very forthcoming with words other than his stories.

Bilbo Baggins, has in fact, spent the whole day in a cat and mouse game with Gandalf, who seemed mildly irate at not being able to figure out his own charge, and Thorin thinks a little meanly that it serves him right. Even Bofur’s friendly  _“Have you travelled a lot then, Master Baggins?”_  was politely veered off course, and Bilbo appeared to enjoy the dwarf’s company more than the wizard’s. 

“Master Oakenshield,” the burglar says too close to his shoulder for comfort, almost an hour later, and the dwarf barely keeps from startling. “There appear to be trolls around these parts,” he says blithely, as if Thorin wasn't about to send someone to look for him, and when he turns towards the others, his posture is challenging, as if daring any of the Company to do something stupid or make a racket.

A bundle of what is certainly not dry branches has been neatly placed on one side of the camp, and Bilbo reaches to remove the cloth.

It takes Thorin by surprise when the Hobbit presents a finely-crafted sword to him, Elvish steel glinting without a trace of rust or dullness. “From their hoard,” he says by way of explanation, and gives Gandalf, who’s now peering curiously at Thorin’s blade, a weapon of similar make. The last of the three he keeps for himself, though his looks to be a small dagger more than anything.

“You continue to surprise me, Bilbo Baggins!” the laughing wizard pats the hobbit’s head, and Bilbo grins up at him, then seems to remember something, rummaging around his pockets until he produces a bag which clinks when he tosses it to Gloin.

Thorin clears his throat, and says a bit roughly, “This is an excellent blade, burglar. You have my gratitude,” but before he can ask the hobbit to name a price, he remembers the bag of coins now in Gloin’s possession.

“I hope it serves you well,” Bilbo says quietly enough that he has to lean to hear him, “the blade will glow blue when orcs and goblins are near.” Then louder to the camp at large, “We must dispense of these trolls. If we can lure them into daylight, they will turn to stone.”

Kíli opens his mouth, but before he can ask anything, the hobbit shushes him tartly and stares into the tree line, that cream-colored beast of his moving to stand beside him and bowing its head so that its owner may pet its off-white mane.

“I would not leave the Men who live nearby to the tender mercies of trolls, not least because I know of their weakness,” their burglar utters ever so softly and looks at Throin, and the dwarf barely suppresses a sigh. Even his nephews have never managed to look so pitiful and determined at the same time, and he finds himself agreeing before he can think better of it.

“So be it,” the dwarf says and despairs at Kíli and Fíli’s cheers. Everyone else busies themselves in coming up with a plan, excited despite themselves at the thought of doing something that isn't riding or gathering wood, except Gandalf, who’s just looking contemplatively at the hobbit. This burglar may very well be the end of them, Thorin thinks uncharitably when it becomes clear that there are _three_ trolls roaming about, but the weight of his new sword placates him somewhat, and he’s forced to admit that felling the foul creatures would be a fair price for what he’s been given.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Though obviously not pleased about it, Thorin still joins in on the planning, and so a clever if simple strategy gets worked out, mainly hinging on individually distracting the trolls until sunrise petrifies them. But, as they are wont to, even the best laid schemes of dwarves, hobbits and a wizard — _especially the wizard_ — often go awry.

Everything is going smoothly until it isn’t, and Ori squeaks as one of the trolls makes to grab him, sling knocked to the side. Bilbo barrels into the dwarf to get him out of the way and winds up caught instead, but before he can be taken hostage, he jabs his dagger in the paper-thin skin between the creature’s fingers and gets thrown off for his efforts, the troll clutching at the wounded hand and wailing that _it stings_.

The hobbit takes a moment to feel smug about having chosen a fitting name for his weapon, flying through the open space as he is, but then promptly smacks into a wayward branch and falls right on top of someone.

That someone turns out to be Thorin, because it would’ve been too easy had it been another dwarf, the King letting his sword fall to the ground in favour of catching the burglar, and somehow, despite the impact, Thorin manages to stay upright, arms circling around his cargo protectively. 

Having closed his eyes in gratitude, and also because he didn’t feel like being on the receiving end of the dwarf’s inevitable glare, Bilbo only chances a glance upwards because moments have passed yet he has still not been let down, but Thorin’s attention lies elsewhere. Cautiously following the line of the dwarf's gaze, the hobbit realises that the ruckus has died down and there are now three stone statues illuminated by the light of dawn in front of them, and not one live troll to be seen.

Relief floods him in a rush and Bilbo leans further into the cradle of strong arms, the prickle of the thick fur lining the dwarf’s coat tickling his cheek. “It would seem you were correct, Master Burglar,” Thorin turns to say, a slight tilt to his lips, and the rumble of his words sends a shiver through the hobbit as he’s being pressed impossibly closer for a fraction and then, before he can process what has happened, he’s being deposited on his feet with care.

A moment passes before Bilbo makes to move away, taking a hesitant step back, face flushed and his own heartbeat loud in his ears, one hand still weakly clutching the sleeve of the other’s coat for support. A calloused hand comes to rest on the hobbit’s forearm to steady him, the warmth of it sending tingles up his arm, and Bilbo thinks, _'Oh dear'._

The hobbit blessedly manages to avoid stumbling over his suddenly clumsy tongue when he says, “Thank you for, er, not letting me acquaint myself with the ground,” but it’s a near thing, and it's rather beyond his power to stop the blush colouring his cheeks from spreading to the tips of his pointy ears, and yet the thought of pulling away from the steadying touch of the other seems more unappealing than the discomfort of a flushed face.

Thorin just looks smug, and like he is about to say something, but then Bilbo’s whirled around by Dori, the dwarf’s hands locking firmly onto his shoulders, and he is being thanked profusely while Ori peeks at the proceedings from behind his brother, abashed, and offers his own halting words of gratitude.

Fíli, Kíli and Ori, they are young, and the hobbit understands that now better than ever. Perhaps it's because he himself is old, or because of the time he spent being a guardian to Frodo. “You’re most welcome, Master Ori,” the hobbit returns with a slight bow, “You were very brave today, and I thank you for your help,” which makes the young scribe blush and partially hide behind Dori.

“Thank _you_ , more like!” Nori appears as if from thin air, nudging the hobbit’s side with measured strength, and when Bilbo turns to him, winks. “Now that that’s outta the way, how about that troll hoard, eh?”

 _Dwarves_ , Bilbo thinks, sighing internally, but trudges towards the nasty cave diligently all the same. He is, after all, the company's alleged burglar.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

There's something strange about their burglar, Balin has known it from the moment he first stepped into the hobbit's smial — oh, it was clean and the food proffered delicious and more than generous in quantity, but the place was bare of all but certain necessities, the only thing in abundance being books in strange languages, maps and parchments detailing corners of the world the older dwarf didn't even know _existed_ , the shelves groaning softly under the weight of tomes ancient and bound in black leather which looked much too sinister for being naught but ink on paper. 

The smial had a temporary quality to it that made it feel less like a home and more like some sort of compromise, an intermediary stop.

The dwarf becomes more certain of this oddness as they journey on the East Road, casual observations of the smaller creature netting a few strained attempts at conversation between the hobbit and the grey wizard, never instigated by the burglar; Bilbo's otherwise amiable — if wary — interactions with the rest of them, and the unreadable expression on his face whenever he watches the Company as he's wont to do, unblinking, from his perch at the very edge of their camp. 

But it's all idle curiosity until the young princes decided to turn a lone howl into a jest meant to scare Bilbo, which Thorin admonished them for, the harsh words prompting Balin to defend their leader’s tone by way of an explanation, the burglar's face remaining impassive thorough the ordeal. It is during his retelling of the Azanulbizar war that Bilbo suddenly wraps a hand around the older dwarf's forearm, the grip of his smaller fingers surprisingly unrelenting, and the hobbit says the most bizarre of things, "Promise me you will not go back there."

"You're not making any sense, laddie—" the dwarf says, not unkindly, after an attempt at figuring out the meaning behind the warning, his brows furrowing in concentration, but the hobbit's grip only tightens, his words becoming more insistent.

"You _cannot_ go back to Moria, Balin. Its walls are home to goblins, their war drums reverberate deep beneath the stone halls of old, and deeper still slumbers an evil worse than the wyrm we're headed for."

 _"Promise me,"_ the burglar pleads, quietly so that the others hear nothing of what is being said, though the dwarf's brother and their leader are looking at them strangely from across the camp, and Balin nods, struck speechless by the urgency of Bilbo's words, the fire in his eyes, and though he makes no mention of the conversation to anyone, his gaze starts to linger contemplatively on their smallest companion more often, but no answers come from this and instead more questions arise.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Radagast doesn't show up. The first warg to spring from the tree line lies dead at Bilbo’s feet. A lone howl sounds nearby, and dozens join it, the bay of the pack making the very ground beneath his feet shake.

“You have to make for Rivendell, now,” he hears himself saying, mind oddly blank and thoughts exempt from fear, “I’ll distract them.” No one seems to hear him, except Thorin, the dwarf staring at him with something akin to disbelief, and Gandalf, whose eyebrows are drawn in concern.

“My dear boy, you cannot outrun the beasts of Gundabad,” the grey wizard intones, but Bilbo’s already calling for Buttercup. The others’ ponies bolted at the first whiff of predator, but the hobbit has faith that his horse will return. Buttercup's saddle is, after all, padded with _warg_ fur. He can do it, maybe. And if not, well…

“It is not my intention to outrun them,” the hobbit says simply, feeling the rumble of hooves with his toes, and he swings up on the saddle as soon as Buttercup reaches him, a bag of sharp stones secured to his belt along with his throwing knives and Sting. “Hide,” Bilbo urges, gripping the reins with one hand and making his horse dance in an impatient circle, and quells any and all remarks with a look he perfected on young Frodo in another life, "And once they are onto me, _run_.”

With a lot of reluctance, which is touching, the rest of the company huddles in the thick bushes that border the plain they’ll have to run through, and for a moment, blessed silence blankets everything. Then the wargs pour out and flood the calm space with their growls, and Bilbo throws a stone, hitting the beast at the very front right on the nose, and the animal gnashes its teeth, incensed. After that, he barely has to shift imperceptibly for Buttercup to leap sideways and start for the open stretch of land, the wargs on her heels making her go all the faster.

Bilbo’s determined to lead the chase in the opposite direction of the dwarves, and once he’s set the course, he secures the reins to the saddle, grabs for the bag of stones, and starts raining down hell upon both mounts and riders, further enraging them, so that they won't be inclined to disperse and hunt for the others. Conkers reigning champion that he is, the hobbit’s throws manage to connect almost every time, and he spares a second to think that he might survive this yet.

Soon enough, he’s switching stones for knives, and he fells more than half of the orcs before they run out, his relentless practice with the weapons having paid off nicely. Without anything left to throw, he has to jerk his horse by the mane, aligning her with the nearest warg, and reach down to cleave the orc’s head, the vile blood of the creature spraying forth in an arc and staining Buttercup’s light-coloured flank and muzzle, making Bilbo’s grip on Sting slippery. Wiping his hand on his white shirt as he is, leaving dirty smears in his wake, the hobbit doesn’t notice when a great dark shape leaps, barreling into him only a split second later and dislodging him from the saddle.

Biting his lip so that he won’t cry out, Bilbo’s left hand sinks into the thick fur of the warg just as the right, holding Sting, drives the blade into the animal’s skull from underneath, the bulk of the dead beast almost crushing his small frame upon landing, a great billow of dust obscuring him from the rest of his pursuers. They are onto him soon enough, but Buttercup, bless her heart, circles back despite her fright and Bilbo leaps for the saddle using the warg’s corpse as a boost for his jump.

Somehow, impossibly, he makes it onto the horse but it’s all he can do to give the path to Rivendell a wide berth and not fall off, his body aching and riddled with tender bruises from his earlier tumble. He knows not how long he rides for, but it feels like an eternity.

Drenched in viscera, copper ringlets weighted with the sheer amount of blood soaked in them, with a horse foaming at the mouth and dressed in a pattern of red splatters, is how the elven hunting party finds him after they've dispatched the remainder of the orcs and wargs, and Bilbo would have wept if he had the energy for it. As it is, he sprawls in the saddle, facing the afternoon sun, Buttercup’s heaving swaying him gently, and closes his eyes for a moment, yet the last rays of light are disappearing below the horizon when he finally opens them again.

He must've passed out, because they’re just stepping into Rivendell, the light breeze rustling the leaves of the nearby trees making him shiver. “The dwarves?” he hears himself ask, tongue sluggish, and as soon as he hears that they’re all accounted for, and very much alive, he’s drifting off again, feeling like the dead warg from before has bit into his thoughts and its dragging them down, down, down, into the darkness of the goblin tunnels.

He hasn’t dreamed of finding the ring for the longest time, but on this night the familiar nightmare finds him again and holds fast.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Inch by inch, he drags himself to consciousness, cold sweat sticking to his body and chilling him to the bones. Not chancing attempting to move at first, his gaze searches the airy room instead, and lands on Óin’s face, eyebrows drawn together even in his sleep, one of his hands still curled around his ear-trumpet tightly. Despite feeling like a very unfortunate rag doll, Bilbo smiles at the sight and, with great effort, extricates himself from the soft bed. There’s a robe laid out for him on a nearby chair, and he pulls it around his chilled body hastily, a sudden urge to scrub at his skin, his hair, taking root in his mind. 

Feeling terribly unclean, even though it’s clear that the worst of the grime on him has been wiped off and his stomach is writhing in hunger, prompting him towards the kitchens and an early breakfast, he pads quietly to the bathing chambers first and lets out a sigh of pleasure as he sinks into the steaming water. No one seems to be awake yet, but that’s not strange considering the chill in the air and the violet shade of the sky indicative of the hours before dawn.

It's not even the dried blood that bothers him, though it is getting itchy, but rather the slimy ghost-tendrils of his nightmare, the feeling of pale fingers around his throat. It hurts, scrubbing until his skin is pink and raw, but he does it anyway, the hot water washing off the vague anxiousness that has been stirring in his chest, leftover grime painting muddy streaks along his torso. His hair is the worst off, so he diligently rubs soap into it, the honey and oatmeal fragrance reminding him that he hasn’t had breakfast yet, and after a while, when the discoloured water pooled around him turns clear, he figures he’s as clean as he can get.

Quite suddenly, he thinks of Buttercup, and resolves to go find his horse after breakfast, wash her poor mane thoroughly — Bilbo remembers with a cringe that orc blood had caked into the light strands the last he saw of it — maybe braid her fringe, and definitely bring her a few apples. It's because of her that he's alive. She came back for him, and she deserves more than his words of gratitude and fruit, though he has little else to offer.

Having borrowed the sweet-scented soap, he shrugs on the robe and his feet take him directly to the kitchens. There’s little there but fruit and lembas at the early hour, but that’s still a veritable feast to him, and the hobbit makes quick work of a sizeable quantity of the Elvish bread - he was told once that a small bite should be enough to last a grown man through a whole day, but that seemed a dubious notion at best then and completely ridiculous now, because it takes at least four to get his stomach to stop grumbling, and he’s still definitely planning on attending proper breakfast in a few hours. Perhaps Lindir had been joking? 

Such thoughts occupy his mind as he packs a few apples to take to Buttercup and heads for the stables, the late summer breeze a gentle whisper against his skin. Bilbo’s first order of business is to give her the fruits, the mare nosing at his hands with a pleased whicker, and then he takes the time to look her over. She’s been scrubbed down rather meticulously and the one injury he spots — an angry looking, though thankfully shallow, scratch on her front leg — has already been covered with an off-green balm that even now smells faintly of herbs.

Bilbo still leads the mare towards the wide but shallow stream a ways away from the stable, because he finds her presence calming and she's rather fond of baths, and after a moment of consideration, he shrugs off his robe so as to not soak it, and wades into the water, Buttercup lying down at his feet, as if she’s a house cat and not a horse, and obediently lowering her head so that he can reach her long locks. Bilbo has an impressive amount of suds going in short order, all the while humming a song under his breath, when he hears someone clear their throat from behind him.

He doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing, and if Thorin feels apologetic about disturbing his reverie, he doesn’t show it. Instead, the dwarf stands determined, hands behind his back. There are no traces of sleep to be found on his person, his clothes and armour in place and Orcrist on his waist. Perhaps he didn’t lie down to rest at all, though Bilbo’s hard-pressed to think of a reason why.

The morning sun gentles the sharp angles of his features somewhat, and the light catches in his sable hair. He looks every inch the king he’s meant to be, and only at the dwarf’s slightly raised brow does Bilbo realise with a start that he’s been staring, and quickly averts his gaze with a soft, “Good morning.”

Thorin, of course, forgoes any greetings in favour of saying, “What were you thinking?” his voice almost admonishing, but Bilbo hears the unspoken,  _‘Why did you do it?’_ , reads the small signs of worry on the dwarf’s face as clear blue eyes move imperceptibly to look over the hobbit, darkening at every mark blooming on his skin.

“Look,” Bilbo sighs in resignation, but he'd rather say this now than later, when he might lose his courage. “I’d rather like to see you on that throne, okay? Preferably under a pile of important paperwork, or just—“ _just alive and surrounded by your kin_ , “Just, you know,” he waves a hand around a bit frustratedly, "and you can’t very well do that if some orc pack gets you, can you? And everything worked out okay,” he finishes with a huff. He’s really not in the mood to defend his actions right now, and so turns his attention to Buttercup’s mane, leaning bodily on her cream-colored side while his nimble fingers start up a braid.

“You’re injured,” Thorin says quietly after a short silence with a disapproving glare in the direction of the purple bruises on Bilbo’s chest and sides, and a particularly vivid bruise on the skin above his left hip-bone, and then his eyes seem to widen, and there’s a faint blush on his cheeks as he very carefully looks up, gaze locked onto Bilbo’s eyes and says, “I’ll see you at breakfast, I presume.”

He sounds slightly strangled, and as soon as the hobbit nods, he excuses himself, coat billowing when he turns to leave. Bilbo frowns a bit, but then he looks down and sees that his white knee-length breeches, those he usually wears underneath his clothes, are covered in suds and soaked through, leaving very little to the imagination indeed. His robe hangs forgotten on a nearby branch. It’s a good thing Thorin decided to go ahead of him, because Bilbo doesn’t think he’s ever turned such a vivid (and frankly alarming) shade of crimson in the entirety of either of his lives.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Bilbo slinks rather than walks to the table delegated to the Company, and even though he’s fully dressed and presentable he still studiously avoids looking Thorin in the eye, which turns out to be quite easy indeed, as the rest of the dwarves are all bent on patting his back, ruffling his hair, or otherwise cheering. This raucous welcome lasts just as long as it takes for Óin to shoulder through the mass of them, looking very, very displeased, and if Bilbo lets out a squeak as the healer pulls him aside to check over his injuries and berate him for taking off, no one mentions it.

“Master Baggins,” Elrond emerges from behind a corner, robes sweeping gracefully behind him, and stops a few feet from the hobbit, “I’m glad to see you awake and about.”

“No doubt thanks to your timely rescue,” Bilbo returns with a splitting grin, and holds a hand to his heart to convey his gratitude. Lord Elrond seems a bit taken aback by the gesture, but raises a hand to his chest in kind, and they stand like that until Bilbo’s stomach rumbles and the elf’s gentle expression morphs into a small, almost mischievous smile.

He motions to the table, indicating the food that’s been laid out, and asks, “Will you accompany me on a walk, afterwards? I shall like to hear more of how you came to be travelling with thirteen dwarves and a wizard.”

Bilbo readily agrees, mind very much on the raspberry tarts that seem to be calling his name and beckoning him closer, but he remembers, just as Elrond is turning to leave, to ask, “Where _is_ Gandalf?”

“Right here, dear boy,” the old man calls from the head of the table, a glass of something that better not be wine in his hand, which is exactly what he says to Gandalf, prompting the wizard to laugh. “Never you mind, but come here and tell us what happened after you took off,” he says, most of the dwarves echoing his words, but Bilbo, who’s gotten quite hungry by this point indeed, huffs.

“You’ll of course excuse me if I have a bite to eat first,” he says, and it’s clear in his tone that it's not a suggestion.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

‘ _A bite to eat_ ’ ends with six polished off plates stacked on top of each other, an empty bowl of honey and a shortage in jam, much to Thorin’s amazement. _“But where does it go?”_ Kíli whispers at one point and the poor lad looks so confused and seemingly betrayed by his sight, that were Thorin not in Rivendell of all places, he would perhaps allow a smile to escape. As it is, he just sits back and watches, his raised brows the only indication of his own bemusement.

The hobbit lets out a defensive, “What? I’ve not eaten in a day and a half!” and Bofur calls out, _“You tell ‘em, lad!”_  the whole table erupting in raucous laughter. Their burglar valiantly tries to look indignant, but it’s clear that he would not begrudge his companions a much needed bout of fun.

When the cheer quiets down a bit, Bilbo calls Thorin’s name hesitantly, and waits to receive an enquiring look in response, before he makes to catch Gandalf’s attention as well. “A word?” the hobbit asks the both of them, and Thorin goes readily enough, his eyes on the smaller male, dedicating only half an ear to the wizard’s droning as they head for the nearby balcony. Bilbo gives them a quick recount of what took place after they separated, impatiently waving off Gandalf’s worry at being pushed off his saddle by a warg and tumbled to the ground, but his next words make Thorin’s blood run cold.

“There seems to be a bounty on Thorin’s head,” he looks quickly between the both of them, concern and uncertainty etched in the lines of his face.

“That’s— I suspected as much,” the dwarf admits with a sigh, and follows with a, “You did right, telling me this," the corners of his lips turning up slightly. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Master Burglar,” he says, and lightly claps the hobbit on the shoulder, feeling for the first time just how fragile his frame really is. _One bite from a warg would be enough to crush him_ , the dwarf thinks, _yet he taunted a pack of them into chasing him_ , and has to shake his head to dislodge the sudden fondness that sweeps into his thoughts.

Bilbo blushes prettily at this, the colour overtaking his cheeks, and some long slumbering feeling pulls at Thorin’s heart, like thumbs pushing at his lungs. Coughing to cover up his sudden breathlessness, he catches Gandalf’s knowing smirk and is glad to have an excuse to revert to a glare. He cannot afford such distractions if he wants to see this quest succeed.

“What of the map?” asks the burglar as they slowly move towards the gardens where the rest of the company have relocated, and Gandalf launches into a winding story that’s very much not about moon-letters, or even about maps. The hobbit quips something from time to time, apparently unfazed by the blatant change of subject, and Thorin stays silent, committing the lively look on the halfling's face to memory, his conflicting feelings dormant under the gentle tranquil blanketing this corner of Middle-Earth.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Bilbo hasn’t slept okay since arriving battered at Rivendell, and it shows in his features, sharper than ever, and in the ever-expanding bruises around his eyes. It’s the proximity to the ring, he thinks, as he pushes around the food in his plate. For a while now, an acrid taste at the back of his throat has been overpowering the sweetness of even grapes and molasses, any and all nuances drowned in bitterness, and his appetite has all but disappeared. It was never this bad before, at least not until the very last years. Perhaps the ring's influence persists over lifetimes, accumulating like the layers of the earth, until the burden becomes too much.

It already feels like too much.

Worried glances follow his retreat as he gets up from the dinner table, loud conversations faltering for a moment but not halting to a stop. In a week, the crescent moon will shine upon the map to reveal a familiar line, and that has not changed. What’s changed is that Radagast is apparently not coming at all, and Dol Guldur and the sinister power residing in it have yet to be discovered.

He has to make for the goblin tunnels soon if he wants to meet up with the dwarves on the other side of the mountains in time. Bilbo shivers at the thought. The hobbit had left a letter with Aragorn, just in case he doesn’t make it, because he cannot afford the ring to fade into oblivion once more while evil gathers its strength, and at the same time he cannot have anyone know of its existence.

His dear nephew held the Man in high regard, and Bilbo's wont to trust in Frodo’s judgement, for even now, despite his youth, Aragorn seems to inspire loyalty. Should something happen to him, those who have to find out will, and that goes a long way to calm his mind. Everything will be okay. Probably.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Their burglar has seemed more and more a shadow of himself as the days while away, the little creature becoming smaller with each meal missed.

There are a lot of meals missed.

It is as if his bright disposition never was, for everything he’d come to learn about the hobbit seems moot as of late.

Having merely glanced at his food the night before, the hobbit had gone to his rooms quite early, and now—now he’s gone, disappeared into so much smoke, and Thorin’s incensed, to say the least.

“Where is Master Baggins? Speak plainly, Wizard,” he demands, uncaring about having interrupted Gandalf's council with the Lord of Rivendell, though it’s the latter of the two who answers.

“His horse came back not an hour ago, saddled but riderless. I was asked yesterday to look after the mare while Master Baggins is away, though I was certain he’d be departing with your Company and not that very night,” the Lord Elrond’s lips curl slightly at this, as if amused. “I assumed you had reached an arrangement, when he left earlier."

“…We did.” Thorin grinds out, remembering the amended contract. They did, in fact, reach an arrangement, though something seems to have urged their burglar to act on it sooner. _Very well_ , the dwarf thinks sullenly, and if doubt had crept into his heart that he would never see the hobbit again, he says nothing of it as he informs the others, but they seem to hear it winding itself in-between his words anyway, if the droop in their shoulders is anything to go by.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

It takes Bilbo days to scale the mountains, and he’s never felt more miserable. An adventure is an awfully lonely thing, without a pack of rambunctious dwarves to keep him company (or even without Buttercup, for he had left the mare at the foot of the mountain, sure that she would find her way back to Rivendell), and the hobbit pushes himself to walk further and faster, if only so that he can drop down, bone-tired body and numb mind, at night, and actually sleep.

On one rainy afternoon, back in the Shire, he’d been scheming to while away the time, and had decided it’d be best to enter the tunnels from the other side, the one closer to the mountain lake, where he’d lost his brass buttons.

Certainly more sensible than falling through a trap door and right into the goblin city, he thinks glumly now, even as he is eyeing up the scraggly creatures guarding the entrance from his current hiding spot, though he rather suspects his cloak and the daylight would’ve been cover enough.

And since there’s no time like the present, and nothing left to do but to go forward, on he goes, with Sting in one hand and a pointy throwing knife in the other, and a great disturbance takes place after the first two goblin-guards fall dead with knives sticking from their eyes.

Armour clashes, swords rattle, swears and curses ring through the air, but though dreadfully frightened, Bilbo darts this way and that, poking and stabbing with his sword, until the blade no longer glows blue, and he is all alone in the dark, and goblins lay motionless to his left and to his right, their dirtied, sticky chainmail an unpleasant sensation underneath his feet as he steps over them.

After that he sets out to explore, but not before recovering the bag he’d stashed outside and wiping his sword on the grass, and taking one last long look at the clouds.

Though the tunnel seems to have no end, it's keeping in the same direction in spite of a twist and a turn or two, and he follows along, going deeper and deeper still into the quiet darkness, with little else but the occasional whirr of a bat flying by his ears to distract his uneasy thoughts, until the movement becomes too frequent and his mind bothers with it no more.

Not daring to stop, the hobbit keeps walking on and on for what seems like a full day but could be half or maybe two (it's nigh impossible to tell this far underground, with the only light around being the pale and dim glow of Sting), when he hears the tall-tale _drip-drip-drip_ of water, and his feet move of their own accord, further and further away from the lake, taking him with unerring accuracy to where he’d stumbled across the ring once before, long ago, and whirling about, eyes searching wildly, he finds it again.

He finds it again; the tiny ring of cold metal on the floor of the tunnel might as well have been an only point of light in a sea of black, and for a good while he can hear nothing, see nothing, and feel nothing except the band of gold in his hand, pleasantly warm to the touch when he strokes a finger along its smooth surface in greeting. _As if it remembered him across lifetimes_ , he muses, the thought dousing him like a bucket of cold water and scattering the heady dizziness that had overcome him.

Very slowly, he gets up from where he'd fallen to his knees, looping the ring through the silver chain on his neck and clasping it securely despite his shaking fingers. Pulling his cloak around himself, he crouches low and heads back, making no more sound than a shadow. The terrible urge to reach for the ring intensifies when he’s passing by Gollum’s lake and he hears a splash not very near, and yet not far enough, but he holds fast to the fading memory of sunlight on his skin and doesn't give in.

_What harm would it do, to put it on his finger just for a little while?_

_No._ Shaking his head to dislodge the thought, he creeps along the tunnel on silent feet. Using the ring would be a mistake — he feels like he’s losing himself as it is, parts of his soul chipped away to make place for a very singular obsession. He holds no hope of avoiding an encounter with Gollum, but by some miracle he doesn’t run into the wretched creature, though his heart pitter-patters and scrapes against his chest painfully right up until he glimpses pale light filtering through ahead, revealing familiar bloody splatters on the tunnel walls, and he could cry with relief when he feels the tickle of grass beneath his feet and the caress of the sun on his face. And cry he does, salty drops catching on his lashes and falling heavy and silent to his lips, to the ground, trickling down to the band looped around his neck.

Allowing himself only a moment, for he has no clue where the dwarves are or how much time has passed, soon he’s scrubbing his face with a sleeve, the off-white cloth coming away soaked with grime and flaked blood, watered down with his tears, rust-colored stains ruining the material for good, and then he's walking on again.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

There’s a rustle behind a copse of trees, and as the weary hobbit creeps cautiously closer, a bitten-off curse, and Bilbo spares a moment to think that it’s the most beautiful sound he’s heard — he certainly wastes no time in running towards it.

He’s been standing behind the company for going on a minute now, eyes wide in wonder and awe, dancing from one dwarf to the next, as they are, all of them, with their back to him and facing the mountain he’d crawled out of not too long ago, grim expressions on their faces.

“So,” Bofur says.

“We are here,” Fíli crosses his arms, “But our burglar isn’t,” finishes Kíli unhappily.

Someone sighs wearily; it sounds a lot like Balin.

“What do we do, Uncle?” the younger of the two asks, voice small, and Bilbo snaps from his daze at the emotion there, clearing his throat.

“Your burglar is right here,” Bilbo says softly, the fondness in his tone swiftly replaced by amusement at the way they jump, then shout with surprise and delight.

Someone tugs him by the arm, and soon enough he’s got armfuls of dwarves, an astonished Gandalf towering over them. “Dear fellow, what on earth did you get yourself into? Why, you look as if you’ve been trampled by a herd of oliphaunts.”

“I’m perfectly fine, don’t be silly!” Bilbo laughs, giddy at being reunited with the dwarves and wizard, “But I’m very pleased to see you all again nonetheless. I trust I’m not late?” he looks at Thorin as he says this, but it’s Balin who shakes his head, smile partially hidden by his white beard.

“We only just got here, laddie,” he assures.

“Where did you go to, if I may ask?” Thorin’s eyes find his, and there’s a tension between the both of them that wasn’t there before. Bilbo cringes at the question.

“I—“ he starts, but cannot, for the life of him, think of anything. He must truly look miserable, for Thorin sighs and leaves him be.

“Get some rest, Master Baggins, you look like you need it,” the dwarf says.

“Aye, catch your breath, burglar. Something seems to have rankled the goblins,” Dwalin adds, grinning knowingly, “It’d be wise to be miles on ere nightfall.”

“I shall rest once we’re out of danger then, thank you very much,” Bilbo huffs, looking from side to side for a suitable branch, and soon finding one, leaning pointedly on his new walking stick and making it clear indeed that he’s not of a mind to dither about.

Dwalin just laughs low, and mutters something in Khuzdul that sounds like approval, but could be anything, for all that the hobbit doesn’t understand a word of it. Cautious, Bilbo offers Thorin a small smile, and is infinitely glad when the dwarf's expression softens in return.  

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Respite, of course, never really lasts, and it’s not long before Bilbo’s clutching at a branch which is unhelpfully attached to the trunk of a tree about to topple over. From a cliff.

“Thorin!” Bilbo hisses, and roughly pulls at the fur of the dwarf’s coat, making him fall back. “You’re not going anywhere!” he scolds, and then adds, pained, “Please stay.”

Thorin just stares at him, probably struck speechless by being addressed so, but there’s no time for this. Perched on the back of a huge white beast, the pale orc is advancing slowly but surely, and they need time. Drawing Sting from its sheath, Bilbo steps down from the tree gingerly, and looks straight at Azog, challenge in his eyes.

Fire licks at his hands, his feet, catching in his clothes, but his chest burns worst of all, where the band of metal makes contact with tender skin in a scorching hiss.

Azog’s eyes are set on Thorin, but snap to his when the hobbit taunts the white warg the orc is riding. Annoyed, the animal yammers and leaps, and he just hopes Gandalf has the wherewithal to call the eagles as he darts sideways, nicking the beast’s hind leg with Sting and scurrying back.

“Bilbo!” Thorin shouts, and he sounds angry and concerned at once, adjusting his grip on a lower branch so that he may jump into the fray, exactly the opposite of what Bilbo had asked of him. _Bebother and confusticate dwarves and their stubbornness!_

In a fit of desperation, unwilling to see Thorin get mangled again, Bilbo jumps. It’s no great leap, but still a leap enough to land him on Azog’s back, where the ensuing scramble surely would’ve dislodged him had he not held on like a particularly obstinate limpet. Cursing in his grating language, the orc tries to slash at his newly-acquired and offending appendage with the blade that serves as replacement for his cut-off arm, but to little avail — being a hobbit, Bilbo is rather small of stature and so can easily stay out of reach on the orc’s broad back.

A screech tears through the general uproar, and orcs and dwarves alike turn to look at the Lord of the Eagles sweeping down from above, seizing Gandalf in his talons and sending no less than three wargs over the cliff edge.

Loud cries the great eagle, to whom Gandalf has now spoken, and the orcs howl in surprise and anger as more great shadows descend on the burning trees. _‘When opportunity knocks, open the door’_ his father Bungo had said more than once, and open the proverbial door Bilbo does, for he sees his chance in the pale orc’s distraction, and takes it, driving Sting in the back of Azog’s neck, and seemingly fueled by pure hatred alone, the orc gurgles and topples them both from the warg’s back with his last breath.

Down they hurtle, the dark lands opening wide underneath them as they fall from the cliff, and Bilbo hastily lets go of the heavier creature, glassy eyes glinting as terrifyingly, or perhaps more so, in the orc's death than in life. The ring strains from the chain on his neck, as if to escape its bearer’s fate, but its burning touch has abated, and the hobbit feels strangely at peace. _Taking down Azog!_ He snorts, even as he's falling. Mother would be proud, at least.

Summer or not, it seems very cold, and he's just about to give an elaborate farewell speech (in his mind, for the freezing winds are howling loud enough to wake the dead, and isn't _that_ a terrible thought), when a great big shadow catches up to him just in the nick of time and a feather-bed breaks his fall.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Air rushes over him, and he rolls to his back so that he's looking at the sky, rather than the distant ground. “Thank you,” he struggles to say to the eagle; his lungs feel as if he is drowning again, mouth sticky with something that upon further inspection turns out to be blood. His injuries seem to have finally caught up with him, various aches and bruises making themselves known and a sudden pain blooming at his left shoulder leaves him breathless, though it too fades to a dull throb under the soothing caress of the cold air.

After a good while passes, Bilbo feels a bit better, and so tries to engage the eagle in conversation.

“Excuse me,” the hobbit ventures, idly wondering if the eagle would think his question rude, because you ought not to be rude to an eagle, especially when he is the only thing between you and a rather terrifying drop, “Would you be at all opposed to ferrying a passenger to the Golden Wood?”

“That can perhaps be arranged,” the great bird answers after pondering over his question, “For unlike Men with their great bows of yew, the fair-folk are our allies of old and would not shoot at us."

“I shall like to see the golden leaves, and the gold and starlike silver of the Lady Galadriel’s hair, if I ever return from this journey,” Bilbo explains, and it would not be the main purpose of his visit, but it is true nonetheless, “And I would seek to repay you, of course, though I know not what prize would be suitable.”

“If the weather is fair and with little wind, I would take you to the Golden Wood myself, little rabbit, and I need not a prize,” the eagle says magnanimously. “Landroval is my name,” he introduces himself, Bilbo following suit hastily, good manners kicking in, “And you may call upon me when you’re ready for the journey there,” he says with finality, forgoing conversation to prepare for his descent, circling in great spirals high above the ground.

When the hobbit turns around, the earth is much nearer, and below them he can make out oaks and elms, and wide grass lands, and a river running through it all. Cropping out of the ground, right in the path of the stream which loops itself about it, stands the Carrock, and it is there that the eagles set down their passengers.

“Farewell, little rabbit!” Landroval tilts his head at the hobbit, who flushes at being addressed so, “May we travel together again, for there is nothing finer than flying!”

“May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks,” Bilbo says politely, and Landroval regards him with approval before leaning down to gently tug at the hobbit's ruined shirt with his giant beak, the playful gesture clearly making the dwarves uncomfortable and defensive, some going as far as to surreptitiously draw their weapons. “Until we meet again,” the hobbit smiles, blithely disregarding Dwalin's dark mutters, pleased that the eagle would be willing to help him later on, but the bird is already leaping from the Carrock, wings catching the current and lifting him into the sky where the rest of his kindred are circling impatiently.

Bilbo’s barely turned around to face the Company, when he catches sight of someone striding purposefully towards him, and Thorin’s gathering him in his arms.

“You! You nearly got yourself killed!” the dwarf glares, after setting him down, both of his hands still on the smaller man’s shoulders.

Having been tumbled off a cliff, fallen through miles of open air, flown above the clouds and now been shouted at and embraced by one Dwarven king in short order, the hobbit’s understandably too dazed to reply, and so just blinks confusedly.

“I— er,” Biblo starts, wide-eyed.

“You’ve done my family a great service,” Thorin says, tone infinitely softer, “And you have my gratitude, Master Baggins. I’m in your debt.”

The warmth of the King's hands seeps through his ragged clothes, and burns through the words Bilbo wants to say, and the grandiosity of it all (he's vaguely aware of the other dwarves bowing) makes him feel much, much smaller. And as a hobbit, you can imagine, he's already small. So he clings to the fur collar of Thorin’s coat instead of speaking, and it’s impossible to get so close to someone that you end up on the other side of them, but Bilbo attempts it anyway.

At this, Thorin smiles for the first time on their journey, and it’s like looking at the sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May the wind under your proverbial wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks, dear readers. 
> 
> 'til the next chapter, which will span through the second movie and will probably cost me a cow as white as milk, a cape as red as blood, hair as yellow as corn, and a slipper as pure as gold. Along with my soul (however much is left of that by now anyway.)


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin's pointing at the Lonely Mountain, but the hobbit's looking at his outstretched hand, his jaw, the silver in his hair. The scales of his brigandine have a dull shine to them in the morning light, but the intricate beads fastened to the ends of his braids catch the sun and gleam most distractedly.

"We ought to be on our way. This is a time-sensitive quest after all," Gandalf says, putting an end to Bilbo's reverie, "Though we are rather in a bit of a plight presently, as we have lost a good deal of our provisions, and have no ponies. But rest assured, there is somebody that I know of, who lives not far away and might help us."

And on their way they go. Steps carved out of the rock itself at regular intervals, crude but efficient, mark their way down from the top — meant to make one's descent easier, Bilbo supposes, though certainly not so in his case. By the time they reach the river below, the hobbit is drenched in sweat from having to clamber down each and every one of them, at least until Dori took pity on him and hoisted him up on his shoulder, much to the amusement of the other dwarves.

Shallow and clear and stony at the ford, the river looks perfect for a dip, and so that’s what the company does. The dwarves are quick in taking off their clothes, eager to get to the water and bathe, but Bilbo takes his time undressing, and when he finally braves the river, he resolutely keeps to the shallows.

The thought of crossing the vast river has him a little spooked, and so he scrubs at his skin quickly, careless fingers catching in his matted ringlets. He lets out a low hiss at the unpleasant pull, and apparently that’s all it takes to summon no less than three dwarves to him.

“Master Boggins! Are you okay?” Kíli reaches for his tangled curls as if to help tease out the knots, but his hand stops abruptly in its path and hovers near the hobbit’s head in indecision, and the young dwarf’s face looks a bit flushed, as if he has stood in the sun, which is now strong and warm indeed, a little too long.

Fíli coughs then, startling his brother into a jump that sends a wave of splashes towards Bilbo.

“Just fine, thank you,” the hobbit replies a little sharply, water dripping from his now further drenched fringe and into his eyes most inconveniently.

“Mister Bilbo,” Ori chirps from somewhere nearby, tone cautious but hopeful, “Would you mind telling me that story while we wait for the others?”

 _That_ _story_ being the tale of Beren and his love for the elf maiden Luthien, one that the young dwarf has taken a particular liking to and requested fairly often, among other Elvish — though by an unspoken and unanimous agreement, they didn’t refer to them as such — tales.

“Again?” Bilbo teases, but his expression softens at Ori’s determined nod and the way the young scribe levels Fíli and Kíli with a warning look, daring them to comment on his obvious penchant for the love stories of Men and fair-folk.

“Come along, then,” the hobbit gestures to a spot at the riverbank that’s shaded by a black cherry tree, promising respite from the sun and sweet berries in one. Kili and Fili trail after him and Ori obediently, as they too enjoy the tales, despite their previous eye-rolls, and the open expressions on their young faces as they listen attentively both warm and break his heart at once.

“The leaves were long, the grass green, and an elf maiden was dancing in a glade of hemlock-umbels tall and fair, and there was starlight in her hair…” Bilbo starts, voice lilting, even as he’s rummaging through his bag, the words flowing and familiar from many repetitions.

Soon he's set aside the one and only spare shirt that has managed to survive the fight and subsequent flight, and is dividing all that’s left of his food provisions between the three dwarves. They’ve all had to tighten their belts, it’s true, but the gauntness of the young ones worries him still, and he can eat some berries besides.

Moving to stand in the water next, he washes his breeches and tries to get the blood out of the shirt he’d been wearing as best he can, laying the clothes to dry on a nearby rock, and putting on his spare shirt afterwards. The Elvish garment engulfs his frame, sleeves dangling past his fingertips, but the material is soft and clean against his skin, so he doesn’t mind overmuch that it's a tad too big.

Bilbo makes for the cherry tree then, never stopping his story, filling his bag with berries from the lowest hanging branches. They’ve reached the point where Beren and Luthien meet once more, her sweet voice bringing spring to the lands after a cold and grey winter, and the hobbit is struggling on his tip-toes to reach some particularly ripe cherries, when he feels someone move behind him, a familiar, low rumble of _“Here,”_ and then Thorin's leaning over him, grasping the branch with an ease that only comes with the appropriate height, and Bilbo’s voice all but dies off at their sudden proximity.

“I—er, thank you?” the hobbit babbles, tripping over his words when Thorin offers him one handful of delicious berries, and then another.

“Tinuviel fled then, did she not?” Thorin prompts softly when Bilbo stays quiet too long, the dwarf's voice low and teasing. He's dressed down to his deep blue tunic, the material clinging to his damp skin, and with his braids undone, his dark hair falls to his shoulders freely, leaving wet streaks behind.

Bilbo has to shake off the urge to feel if the dark strands are as soft to the touch as they look.

“Not far,” the hobbit says a bit breathlessly, struggling to keep his tone even, “Hearing him call her name halts her, and his voice lays a spell upon her heart.” Spell? _Love_ , Bilbo thinks, heartbeat a little frantic, and the sun-warmed hand brushing against his own does nothing to dissuade the squeezing sensation in his chest.

The rest of the tale he finishes in a blur, terribly distracted by the way Thorin’s fingers move when they plait Fíli’s unruly hair, the young dwarf sitting meekly at his Uncle’s feet. And then they are getting up, refreshed and ready to continue their journey across the river.

Bilbo trails after them, still a little out of sorts, but his feet simply refuse to take him further when the water surrounding him reaches his knees. Kili, bless his heart, seems to notice his predicament, because he crouches with his back to the hobbit and his arms outstretched, solemnly declaring that he’ll carry him across the ford. Bilbo’s just about to gratefully accept this very thoughtful offer, but before he has a chance to, he’s being lifted out of the water and tucked against Thorin’s hip, the dwarf’s arm curling around the hobbit’s waist to support his weight, large hand stopping to rest on Bilbo's thigh.

The hobbit may or may not squeak then, arms flying out to steady himself against a solid chest, rolled-up overlong sleeves unraveling, lending him the look of a petulant child playing at dress up. Valiantly trying to ignore his embarrassment, and studiously not looking at Thorin, whose face is very, _very_ close to his own indeed, Bilbo instead glares at Kili’s barely suppressed snicker from his perch, but that only serves to spur on the youngster’s giggles.

They cross the ford soon enough, and the dwarf lowers him down gingerly when they reach the other side, with the most sheepish expression Bilbo’s seen on his face, though the hints of it are barely there and the hobbit notices only because he’s looking, and closely at that too.

“Thank you!” he hurries to say, ducking his head but resisting the urge to shuffle his feet, “We hobbits are not overly fond of deep water, what with being exceptionally bad at swimming.”

“Indeed? I had not noticed,” Thorin says, brows raised as if in surprise, and looking entirely too smug, in Bilbo’s opinion.

“Oh, hush,” the hobbit rolls his eyes, stuffing his hands in his pockets before he does something stupid and improper like reach out to kiss the smirk off the dwarf’s face.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

"Well, I never—!" the hobbit cries when Beorn plucks him off the ground by his scruff and deposits him high up on one of his broad shoulders without warning. This trend of being carried around is most distressing!

There's the sound of something breaking not far away, curses following suit, and the hobbit lets out a resigned sigh. His stomach rumbles loudly then, prompting Beorn to cart him towards the nearby table laden with food, his booming laughter making the laid out dishes clatter.

"Little bunny is hungry, eh?" their host rumbles, amused, "Fill your belly then, you'll be nice and round soon again!" he chuckles, and deposits him on a chair that's entirely too big and does nothing to make him feel less like a recalcitrant fauntling.

Remembering his manners, he thanks their host, and wastes no time in digging into the delectable honey-cakes set before him, previous incident forgotten at the promise of all the delicious food he can eat. His enthusiasm dampens soon after, however, and the hobbit has to put down the half-eaten treat, feeling at once nauseated and weary. Beorn is telling a tale in his deep, rolling voice, of the wild lands on this side of the mountains, and especially of the dark and dangerous wood, the terrible forest of Mirkwood, but Bilbo hasn’t the heart to listen.

The hobbit excuses himself, leaving the rest of the company to their well-deserved merriment, and ambles outside, hoping the fresh air might clear his head. But even in Beorn’s garden, looking out upon a sunlit patch of purple clovers, Bilbo feels ill at ease.

Bees the size of his thumb are everywhere, busy flying to and fro, their droning and buzzing worsening the hobbit’s already poor concentration, and the twinge in his shoulder returns with a vengeance, though he’d cleaned out the gash and bound it in cloth earlier at the river. He fights the urge to be sick all over the flowers at a sudden bout of pain, and is infinitely grateful when Ori emerges from the house with two mugs of tea.

“Dori made some,” the young scribe smiles, handing Bilbo one of the mugs and setting his own down, taking out an assortment of quills and a leather-bound journal from his bag. The hobbit hums, pleased at being able to partake in tea after so long, and closes his eyes to shield them from the brightness of the sun. It does him good, the tea, and Bilbo glances sideways, opening his mouth to thank Ori, only to shut it again when he sees the scribe’s brow is furrowed in concentration, teeth worrying his lower lip and braids swaying gently as he sketches. _Well_ , Bilbo thinks, lowering his eyelids, _there are certainly worse ways to spend one’s afternoon_.

Some hours later, when the hobbit receives a portrait drawn for him from a blushing but resolute Ori, his heart feels a great deal lighter, and for the first time in a long while, it’s no hardship for him to sit down and enjoy a generous dinner.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

“Good morning,” Bilbo greets Beorn the following day, while the sun has yet to crest the horizon and the clouds are pastel pink and blue, and clasps his hands behind his back.

“It was a good story, that story of yours, little bunny,” the shapeshifter forgoes any and all greetings, “But I like it better still now that I’m sure it is true, and you must forgive me for not taking your word.”

The giant man regards the hobbit with a faint smile, hands propped on his axe now that he isn’t actively chopping wood.

“I know a fair bit more of those, if you’d like to hear some, and—” Bilbo starts, trailing off when he catches the way Beorn leans closer in interest.

“And?” the man prompts with a growl born of impatience rather than anything else.

“And I would like to make you an offer— if you are amenable to such things, of course.” Bilbo smiles beatifically, “I have reason to believe that a barrel or two of your excellent honey wine won’t go amiss on our trek through Mirkwood, you see, and would like to exchange a story for every barrel given."

“What are you scheming at, little bunny?” Beorn asks, at once amused and slightly suspicious, one of his impressive eyebrows slowly inching towards his hairline.

“Well, I was thinking that several casks of exceptional drink might endear the Elvenking to the idea of dwarves passing through his woods, is all.”

"Do you call ‘a barrel or two' _several_?”

“Well, no. As a matter of fact, I was thinking more in the line of a dozen—“

“A dozen! That’s the first time I’ve heard several called a dozen.”

“Well, yes, and maybe a couple more?” Bilbo says so tentatively, it comes out as a question.

“Do hobbits count differently to other people?” Beorn mutters, narrowing his eyes, “Little one, how many barrels of my honey wine do you intend to relieve me of, exactly?”

“Er, fourteen?” the hobbit blinks up as innocently as he can manage, which is to say, not very.

At this, Beorn barks out a laugh so loud, he sends a kit of spotted doves up in the air in a flurry, and some of his ponies trot over to make sure he’s okay.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

So begins the great story-telling, for Bilbo has promised a tale per barrel, and a tale per barrel the shapeshifter gets — from troll dinners to entmoots, bravery to cowardice, Balrogs to spiders, love between exiled Kings and Elf-maidens, and so on, and so forth, until the poor hobbit feels like he can utter not one word more.

Beorn, it should be mentioned, delights the most in a story of a great friendship, greater than any that has been, one between a certain dwarf and an elf, thorough which Bilbo has to shush him more times than he cares to admit, for the shapeshifter’s laughter shakes the ground with its force and his exclamations carry far and wide, and the hobbit is not keen on his companions overhearing, lest it rankles their sensibilities.

Bilbo all but collapses on the wooden chair at dinner that night, and the shapeshifter pokes the hobbit’s stomach most disrespectfully when the latter fails to reach for his plate.

“Come, eat up and go to bed! You’ve had a long day and your wits are sleepy.” Beorn chuckles at the glare the hobbit sends his way.

The dwarves keep stealing surreptitious glances their way, and Gandalf is outright watching, but in truth Bilbo cares not one whit. He _has_ missed the raucous man’s company. Once upon a time he had, after all, spent a whole winter in his home, and the two of them got along quite nicely.

Downing a tankard of honey wine — which is truly delicious, sweet but not overly so, deep red in colour and with hints of cherries — the hobbit gets up, offering naught but a slurred, hoarse _good night_ , and staggers to his bedroll, bleary eyed and not entirely unaffected by the alcohol and the truth of the stories he spent the day sharing, for reality is often stranger than any make-believe.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

Thorin is slightly suspicious, to say the least. ’Tis true, the shapeshifter has been a gracious host, going above and beyond in providing them with mounts for their journey to the forest, and enough food to last them for weeks if rationed with care, but he’s also been stealing off with their burglar none-too-subtly, the both of them talking at great length about things unknown.

And then there are the barrels. Fourteen of them, to be precise, some finding their way on the giant man’s back, some strapped to the ponies, but fourteen nonetheless, and each and every one of them wafting of mead, their presence unexplained no matter how much prodding and poking the dwarves (or the wizard, for that matter) exert.

 _Very well_ , Thorin thinks, _we’ll find out soon enough_ , since no level of—of _gratitude_ he holds for the hobbit would justify lugging this many barrels through the dark forest, and an explanation would no doubt be coming ‘ere they had to send their ponies back to brave the little-known pathway through Mirkwood on foot.

He rethinks that notion as soon as they reach the forest-gate, for it would’ve been better to have never known the purpose of the blasted mead barrels.

The land begins to slope up and up, until they reach the eaves of Mirkwood, and they stop almost beneath the great overhanging boughs of its outer trees, their trunks huge and gnarled, branches twisted. Ivy winds around dark green leaves and trails along the ground.

It’s altogether foreboding, eerie, and aboveground, and a number of other unpleasant things besides, but that’s unsurprising.

No, the surprise comes in the form of a squadron of wood-elves that greet them at the forest-gate, jumping down from their vigilance in the branches as soon as the dwarves reach the small clearing, despite the wizard’s assurances that this path was by and large abandoned, and it’s only the jolting suddenness of Beorn’s laugh that stays the hand he has on his sword.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Thorin demands, and expecting an explanation from the shapeshifter, or perhaps even from Gandalf (the dratted wizard has his large nose in everything), sees no need to gentle his voice, to tamp down on the hostility woven through his words, so it's on _him_ that their burglar flinches so violently he stumbles forward, right in the middle of the small clearing and in between the two groups, and Thorin’s heart sinks at what that means.

“I told them to come,” the hobbit says softly, curling up on himself, and if possible, shrinks down even further under the scrutiny of everyone present.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

“Ye did _what_?” Dwalin shouts.

" _Why_?” cry Fili and Kili at the same time, and several other outraged voices echo the sentiment.

“Whatever were you thinking, Bilbo?” Gandalf strides towards him, leading his horse by the reins.

By some stroke of luck, Radagast or not, the wizard appears to be set on going to Dol Guldur, at the very least. _Small mercies_ , Bilbo thinks.

Beorn, unhelpful as ever, is still chuckling off to the side, amused to no end that the fair-haired elf from Bilbo’s story, the one telling of a greater friendship than any — between a dwarf and an elf prince, no less — is quite real, and currently looking rather displeased at the whole situation.

Bilbo might’ve found it funny too, if not for the ice that has lodged in his chest at the coldness of Thorin’s tone, the King’s thunderous mood evident in the set of his mouth. As it is, he has to fight back tears and the terrible need to put on his ring and disappear, whilst being keenly watched by dozens of eyes, a pair of which he especially dares not look into for fear of what he might see there. They'd been doing _so good_ too. But not anymore.

Silence has fallen over the small clearing, the elves having lined up orderly, the stillness unbroken but for the soft croons of a spotted dove, and the flutter of its wings as it relocates to Beorn’s shoulder from its previous perch on the forearm of the only fair-haired elf in the group, who seems torn between concern for Bilbo, hunched up as the hobbit is, and contempt for the company of dwarves.

“Prince Legolas,” the hobbit acknowledges with stiff politeness, “I trust your presence means you’ve found my request agreeable. A barrel of honey wine per each of us, in exchange for safe passage through your realm.”

“I thought to bargain with the elves, lest our intentions for entering their forest were misunderstood,” he says to everyone else, and forces himself to drag his gaze up to meet Thorin’s eyes, even though the movement seems nigh impossible to achieve. “I’ve grown very fond of you,” the hobbit says, “and would spare you from having to face the perils of the forest and from the possibility of being thrown in a dungeon, if I can,” then adds, defiant, because he’s clearly thrown all caution to the wind, "Whether you like it or not.”

And with that, Bilbo turns away from the light, gesturing for Legolas to lead on, and plunges into the dubious darkness of the forest, which is still a shade lighter than his mood indeed.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

“What do you know of the dangers of our woods?” Legolas peers down at the hobbit with curiosity as they walk side by side down the narrow, dreary path, the dwarves trudging after them in an uncomfortable silence.

They'd left all of the other elves in that unfortunate clearing, to get the barrels to the Forest River further north, where the current would take them straight to the Elvenking’s Halls, the prince apparently comfortable guiding a company of dwarves and a hobbit through the forest by himself.

"I know enough," Bilbo says tightly, and then, because he's been raised better, _twice over_ at that, more evenly, "the Greenwood has seen better days."

Legolas inclines his head thoughtfully at that, and leaves the hobbit to his wretched contemplations, which is not ideal in the least. They're making good headway, walking at a fast pace, and since no one seems inclined to stop for lunch, not even Bilbo himself, a few hours later they are already deep enough in the forest that it feels like dusk, and the foliage looks almost black in the low light despite it being midday.

He hears them first, hoarse whispers and hisses, and dread crawls all over his skin. Then, as his eyes start to adjust to the dimness, the hobbit starts catching glimpses of cobwebs sticking to this branch or that, at first deceptively innocuous, the shuffle of numerous legs and the eyes that shine in the darkness lending them a decidedly deadly presence.

By the time they do stop for rest, Bilbo's thoroughly unsettled, focus intent on the spiders lurking beyond the tree line, so much so that he doesn't notice when someone comes to stand by his side.

"Burglar," Thorin rumbles, and the fine hair on the hobbit's arms stands on end for a completely different reason.

He is not saying anything else, and when Bilbo looks up he’s greeted with a frown. He’s just about to take a fortifying breath, but before he can, the King's gathering the hobbit’s hands in his own, and he hadn’t noticed they were trembling until now, but they are, shaking like leaves caught in the wind, except there is no wind, not here, and the dwarf’s frown deepens when he feels the tremors against his palms.

 _It’s this place_ , Bilbo wants to say, when really, it’s this _adventure_ , but he chose this road for himself, time and again, and to lose one’s heart is not a path for the faint and fainting, so he bites back his words, wills his fingers into stillness as best he can.

“It’s _Bilbo_ ,” he corrects instead, mock-exasperated, tentatively curling his fingers in the hands bracketing his own, blunt nails briefly dragging against skin.

They stay silent, after that, but Thorin doesn’t let go, his gaze thoughtful and cinder-bright, and the hobbit supposes that’s as good as anything.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

There’s no movement of air down under the forest-roof and they’ve been walking for what seems like ages upon ages now, and Bilbo feels like he’s slowly suffocating. It’s just as terrible as he remembers it being.

The dwarves, at least, have started being grudgingly accepting of Legolas’ presence, after the elf had saved their poor cook from a highly unadvisable dip in the enchanted stream by way of grabbing Bombur’s looping beard when the dwarf had stumbled, and pulling him upright in an enviable show of strength.

Hissing and creaking, the spiders have been keeping the hobbit awake with their thin voices, not that it matters over-much, for when he did find sleep, it was short and restless, and after rising with a scream in his throat more often than not, Bilbo decides not to bother with it at all, instead electing to keep Legolas company while the elf stands on watch, carefully averting his gaze from the pale, bulbous eyes that gleam from the undergrowth, the thick cobwebs tangled in the lower branches of the trees, the monstrous shapes hiding behind their gnarled, twisted trunks.

'Kill them!' the loathsome creatures click their mandibles.

'Feast!' they hiss, rubbing the bristles on their legs in anticipation.

And the poor hobbit is the only one who can hear their foul words, it seems, because while the others appear mildly dizzy and discomfited, Bilbo’s well and truly going mad, his heart either leaping or very still, his mind either like fireworks or like a barren field, and the ring is always fire, but his limbs are cold, and in his weakness he grows susceptible to its call, catches himself dragging his fingertips along its golden surface in a caress.

He doesn’t want to go to sleep but he can only resist it for so long, and as evening wears on to a pitch-black night, he crumples on top of his bedroll, not unlike a puppet with its strings cut, out before he’s even reached the ground.

Then, like in all of his dreams since they've entered the forest, there are spiders.

At first they don’t notice him, perhaps because he’s wearing the ring in his nightmare, or perhaps it's simply the strange, inverted logic of the kind one can expect to find in a bad dream. But then one of the horrid creatures abruptly snaps from where it’s been rubbing its bristly hind legs together, and its many, many milky-white eyes swivel and land on Bilbo, and it’s a dozen meters away in one moment, then it’s toppling the dazed hobbit the next, towering over him and trying to poison him, to keep him nice and quiet, and Bilbo, dream or not, is having none of that.

Drawing out Sting, the sword ever fatefully at his side, he slides down the rotting leaves, further beneath the spider, and then drives the blade into the creature’s midriff, which makes it go mad and leap and dance and fling its legs in horrid jerks, its gaping abdomen leaving a trail of pale blue blood and viscera.

Bilbo would gag, if he had the time to, but as it is more and more fat bodies are swarming him, and he has to swallow down bile and focus on darting backwards and forwards, slashing spider-threads, hacking at their legs, stabbing at their numerous eyes if they come too close.

It’s a most terrible business, this nightmare, and it doesn’t even seem like it’ll do him the courtesy of ending soon.

The spiders are swelling with rage, and spluttering and frothing, and hissing out horrible curses, but they dare not come near now, afraid of Sting, until quite suddenly, they stop scuffling their legs altogether, instead looking upon the hobbit at once.

'What is it?' one breaks the quiet with a curious click of its mandibles.

 _'Blackheart!'_  another hisses, and there’s something strange in the way the words are said, the language somehow fouler.

'It is said, it is said,' the spiders chant with eerie sibilance, their fangs clinking like chimes in the wind, but there is no wind, even in this horrid nightmare.

' _Master_ ,' they whisper as one, and the word lingers in the muggy air, offensive.

It is so offensive, in fact, that before he quite knows what he’s doing, Bilbo’s lifting his sword and cutting down their recumbent forelegs, hewing their claws and carving out their eyes, pale blue blood pooling at his feet, until his sword-arm tires, the creatures never once moving to defend themselves.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

The hobbit is missing, and how he slipped by unnoticed by him, Legolas may never find out, for the vast woods of old are now filled with terrors, fell creatures roaming freely in the darkness. The prince has seen them, lurking in the undergrowth beyond the path. Watching, waiting.

The hobbit is missing, and most likely long lost to the world, but it’s the elf’s duty to at least find out what happened to their piteous companion, to recover what remains he manages to salvage. He'd taken a liking to the strange little creature too, for their conversations were never dull, and he feels responsible for his fate.

Oakenshield had been furious when Legolas bid him to stay, the dwarf wrathful in his worry, but even without the danger posed by the foul beasts, the forest itself remains enchanted, everything from the lichen creeping up the trees to the dusting of moth wings potent with a magic of its own, dizzying and poisonous, deadly to all but the elves who have known these woods for thousands of years, and whom the woods have known for thousands of years in turn. Something shuffles nearby, further ahead and just out of sight, and the elf draws his bow even as he’s striding forward, footsteps muffled by the forest floor.

What he finds is not what he expects; the colours are all wrong, too much blue, a teal pond of blood flooding the space, the closer hanging leaves soggy with the weight of it, long black limbs strewn about like sinking islands, shiny-slick with liquid ichor, and amidst it all, the hobbit, hands and sword coated in a telling shade of cruor.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

“Don’t—“ _tell them_ , Bilbo hasn’t the strength to finish, voice breaking off.

It was not until after, with the only sound the persistent, lazy _drip-drip-drip_ of grume, fist clenched around the ring, distinctly unaware of when, exactly, he’d taken it off the silver chain around his neck, that he'd realised he hadn’t dreamt at all, immediately curling over at the wave of nausea that follows. He’d let himself fall down then, one hand clamping on his mouth to stifle a scream, the other always, always clutching the ring in its hold, and remembered nothing more for a long while.

Legolas seems to notice how haunted he looks, because he gives an infinitesimal nod, and patiently waits for the hobbit to find his feet before they head back, the elf's sharp gaze fixed on a misshapen lump, roaming the blank spaces where eyes glinted once.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

There are shouts when they return, but mostly there’s relief, and nothing really happens thereafter, except the oaks turning into beeches, dusk turning into tentative light, the shadows growing fewer and farther apart.

“Is there no end to this accursed forest?” Thorin mutters at some point, annoyed, but draws Bilbo closer to his side by way of lightly tugging on the hobbit’s cloak anyway, ever watchful after that unfortunate late-night stroll.

(  _Sleepwalking_ , Oin had suggested, and the hobbit had went along with the explanation, doing his best to look sheepish. Legolas had looked entirely unconvinced, but thankfully said nothing of it. )

Bilbo allows himself to be tugged without a fuss, granting Thorin what measure of peace he can by proximity, all the while trying to catch the brief glimpses of light streaming from the thinning forest-roof. Legolas had gone ahead a day prior, to secure a barge for their company, since great floods and rains had swollen the waters that flowed east in recent years, creating marshes and bogs that had spread wider and wider on either side. Paths had vanished, the elf had explained grimly, and now only the river offers a safe way from the outskirts of Mirkwood to the mountain-shadowed plains beyond.

The dwarves were dismayed at this, but Bilbo rather looks forward to meeting Bard again — at least, he hopes it is him, because they do have a thing or two to discuss, that _thing_ being the dragon waiting at the end of this venture.

When they finally emerge from the forest, the hobbit’s eyes are nearly blinded by the light, the sun shinning so brilliantly that a long while passes before he can bear it. Even the dwarves, ever used to tunnelling and living for long without the light of the sun, take their time to bask in its brightness.

Burbling and frothing, the Forest River greets their company, and when the hobbit’s eyes adjust to the light, he can finally make out a moored barge, and a familiar figure waiting nearby, the Lake-man’s features stern and rugged, and a welcome sight indeed.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

After traveling through Mirkwood, Lake-town seems like the pinnacle of civilisation, despite the overpowering smell of brine and fish. This time, they rent a house instead of storming Bard’s home, and Bilbo’s unwilling to leave its warmth for the duration of their stay, so he huddles in the too-big armchair, drinks tea. Watches the Company move about in the space of the living room from his perch, committing them to memory.

There is a blanket across his shoulders, but he’s still shivering, knuckles gone white where he’s clutching his tea mug.

“Should I be worried?” Thorin wonders aloud, no longer looking out of the window.

“Whatever about? Bilbo hums in reply, willing his drowsy mind to focus.

“Your teeth,” the dwarf’s lips quirk in amusement, “They are chattering loud enough to rouse the old beast, whether he is slumbering or dead.”

“They are most certainly not!” the hobbit splutters, cradling his mug to his chest to prevent it from sloshing, but his voice, ever contrary, grows hoarse and turns into a horrible coughing fit that has even a mostly deaf Oin rushing over, brandishing a concoction that smells entirely too mouldy and looks like the wrong shade of green to be palatable.

He still drinks it, under the healer’s hawk-like gaze, and it tastes just as foul as it looks, though it warms him, soothing his raw throat and making him even drowsier in the process. Oin nods when he sees the hobbit’s eyes drooping, satisfied, and goes back to inventorying his herbs, but Thorin settles down in the opposite armchair, pipe in one hand like he intends to stay.

The dwarf huffs sometime later, and there’s a glint of gold followed by the catch of fingers against metal strings, and a low, deep hum that morphs into a lullaby, gentle notes dissolving like spun sugar, the sounds a lingering aftertaste on the sleepy hobbit’s tongue as he silently shapes out words he does not understand.

Bilbo doesn’t dream about anything, doesn’t even realise he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up, covered with a fur-trimmed coat, wisps tickling his palms when he sleepily drags them along the collar. He’s alone, the space across from him empty, but residual smoke clings to the angular pipe set aside on the nearby table, tendrils curling lazily in the cold afternoon light.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

“What!?” Bard demands, voice grim.

The halfling looks at him calmly, hands clasped behind his back, goes over his prior words with patience. He’d cornered the bargeman as soon as the dwarves had taken off to secure supplies and ponies for their journey to the Mountain, which if Bard had thought reckless and foolish before, he does more so now. _Smaug_ , the halfling says, is very much alive. _Better evacuate the town. Take the black arrow, keep it close. Aim for the hollow by the left breast of the old wyrm, if worst comes to worst._

 _Speak of this to no one_ , he doesn’t repeat, but he doesn’t have to.

“How came you by this information?” Bard asks, frowning. The dwarves seem to be cautiously hoping Smaug is either gone or dead, no indication of having any additional information about the goings on in the Mountain. But there’s conviction in the hobbit’s words, and his eyes flash at the question. He doesn’t answer.

Later, when their company has left Lake-town, Bard finds a letter in the pocket of his coat, addressed to the heir of Girion, Lord of Dale, granting him, and _only_ him, the right to a part of Erebor’s treasure — most of the hobbit’s share, it seems — to use for rebuilding the once prosperous city that now lay deserted at the foot of the Mountain.

He puts the letter back in his pocket, and with a grim sigh, goes to warn the people of Lake-town of the rather probable impending destruction of their homes.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

“It’s almost as if you’ve been here before, Master Baggins,” Bofur jokes good-naturedly, but it seems to fall flat.

Bilbo isn’t laughing, of course, because he knows what happens next. He leads the dwarves unerringly to the hidden door, after a cursory glance at the map — for show more than anything — all the while ignoring the curious gazes fixed on him.

There’s the familiar impassive face carved in the side of the mountain. There are the familiar rough steps going ever upwards in a strange pattern. A familiar steep-walled bay, a floor covered in grass. The echoing snap of a thrush knocking a shell against the stone, like a premonition and the sound of history repeating in one.

The autumn sun sinking lower and lower, disappearing into the embrace of clouds the colour of fire, ablaze; the last ray of light breaking through, falling on its hidden mark, like so many times before.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

“You don’t have to—“ Thorin starts, uncertain.

“Thorin,” the hobbit interrupts him, not unkindly, “This is why you brought me along, is it not?"

They are standing in the little alcove, Bilbo looking at the horizon, Thorin watching him look. He’ll have to put on the ring, and steal from a dragon hoard. Again. And this won’t even be the most difficult thing he has to do. Sighing, the hobbit reaches to rub at his upper lip in thought, and his hand comes away bloody, red seeping between the ridges of his skin in curious patterns.

“Oh,” Bilbo says, voice small and surprised, thumb sweeping across the mess and leaving a smear.

Thorin looks mildly horrified, his eyes roaming, searching for any injuries, hands hovering as if he’s afraid to touch the hobbit lest Bilbo breaks. Bilbo straightens up at this, produces a handkerchief from one of his pockets and dabs at his face gingerly, all the while assuring the dwarf that, _Yes, everything is quite alright._

“You’re unwell,” the King says quietly, “You shouldn’t be going in.”

Everything isn’t alright, least of all Bilbo, but the hobbit splays his clean hand on the dwarf’s chest all the same, keeps it there for longer than necessary before he pushes off gently. Makes sure the sluggish trickle of blood has stopped before he lies, “It’s just a nosebleed.”

But one of his hands is painted red, half of his face too, and when he licks his lips the taste of copper blooms on his tongue. The weight of the ring is suspiciously light, and he hopes against hope that that’s not a bad thing, but knows better than to believe it.

“Wish me luck,” the hobbit says with one last, reassuring smile, and then he’s going down the tunnel, feet light on the stone steps.

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

The Arkenstone shines brilliantly, nestled invitingly among countless gold coins and just a reach away, like it too _wants_ to be found. Bilbo’s eyes stray to the ring on his hand, and he wonders just how many cursed treasures there are, and why it is that _he_ 's the one who keeps stumbling upon them.

Maybe he is cursed, too.

Allowing a few choice words to pass through his mind, Bilbo leans down and carefully extricates the gem from its precious bed, somehow managing to do so with nary a clink, and puts it in his pocket, heart clenching painfully tight when he feels the phantom brush of a sword tip against his chest.

Then he’s stepping back, taking care to breathe at a measured pace, gentle inhales and exhales that won’t disturb the air, skirting the mounds of coins lest he gets buried under them with a violent burst of noise.

Smaug is nowhere to be seen, but there’s little doubt that the dragon is sleeping nearby — smoke is curling upwards, the smell of ash hanging heavy in the air, and the stone is preternaturally warm under his feet. Ignoring the unseen dragon in the vault for the time being, Bilbo heads towards the weapons lining the wall next, picking up as many bows as he can carry, and slinging a quiver full of heavy black arrows across his uninjured shoulder.

"Thorin," the hobbit says when he emerges from the tunnel, barely managing to lay his plunder out on the grass before he's dragged upright by a strong hand, and there's a thumb sweeping high on his cheek, a fingertip catching on his eyelashes. 

It would be easy, Bilbo thinks, to stand up on his toes and press his lips to Thorin's. To taste his skin, to run his hands through his dark hair.

"You are alive," the dwarf says, breathless. "What of the dragon?"

It would be easy, but Bilbo takes a step back instead.

"Smaug is alive," the hobbit looks around at all of the dwarves, before his gaze lands back on Thorin, and then glances down meaningfully at the bows and arrows set out on the ground, "But not for much longer, if we do this right."

 

❧ ∞ ❦ ∞ ❧

 

"Well, _thief_! Where are you?” Smaug’s voice booms in the vast cavern, his nostrils flaring, trying to catch the hobbit’s scent.

Wisps of vapour linger in the air and float past him, and Bilbo’s sweating, his every inhale and exhale another misstep, too sudden, too loud, the dry air settling painfully in his lungs. He hopes the dragon’s too distracted by the intrusion to notice the Arkenstone is missing, even as he slips in a nook to catch his shaky breath, racking his brain for another riddle but coming up empty, feasible ideas as scarce as hen’s teeth and his thoughts slower than molasses.

“There is _something_ about you. Something you carry, something made of gold,” the dragon purrs, and his head swivels towards Bilbo’s hiding spot unerringly, eyes burning with interest, "But far. More. _Precious,_ ” he finishes with a smug hiss, muggy breath gusting across the hobbit’s flushed face.

Then, bereft of any other choice, Bilbo has to dive under the enormous jaw that’s in front of him, catching a horrifying glimpse of fangs that are almost as big as himself, skidding across gold coins that bite into his skin, pocketing his ring and running towards the forge.

 _I’ll lead him to the forge_ , he’d said back on the green alcove, _You just aim for the hollow on the left side of his chest_ , and he has well and truly put his foot in it this time, with little else left to do but to get it out, and try to not get anyone, himself included, incinerated in the process.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just agree that they got a late start this time around, and thus arrived right on the prophesied date, aye? Very punctual, this lot. Throwbacks to various Tolkien works galore, and other books besides. 
> 
> If any of you ever pass through [tumblr](http://nibelstrife.tumblr.com), tea is at four. There's plenty of it. You are welcome any time. Don't bother knocking!


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